Angus Wells: Lords of the Sky

“I’ll speak with him later.” Talle scratched his narrow nose, his expression thoughtful. Var was reminded of a carrion bird studying a carcass. “Go on.”

“They made good their promise.” Wyme’s eyes met Talk’s at last, almost defiant. “More holdings were destroyed and folk flooded into the city. Food grew scarce. I must find quarters for them all …”

“Or send them back.” Talk’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “At bayonet’s point, if necessary.”

Wyme flushed. “They’d have fought,” he protested. “God knows, but there’d have been rioting. And had they gone back, surely the demons would have slain them.”

“And where was Major Spelt all the while?” The Inquisitor’s bird-bright eyes swung to the officer. “Why was no punitive expedition mounted?”

Wyme appeared grateful that attention was focused on Spelt, who shrugged uncomfortably and said, “It was discussed, Inquisitor. But I’ve only so many men-and enough lost already. You must understand … It was the governor’s decision-” He avoided Wyme’s angry glance.”-that it were best we hold Grostheim secure against the threatened attack. These demons are not such creatures as I’ve ever fought. They come out of nowhere and disappear like shadows…. They’re savage beyond belief. Had I taken my full force out-or even sufficient men to scour the land-I should have left Grostheim undefended.”

“We believed ourselves alone in Salvation,” Wyme added desperately. “We’ve never had more than a garrison here-not enough men to fight a war! And so many folk had come refugee, we deemed it best to hold the city secure. And as well we did!”

He paused, topping his glass as if the memory required the fortification of alcohol. Var studied his face, and Spelt’s, and thought two very nervous men sat here. Doubtless both feared for their positions-nor did Talle’s interrogation reassure them-but there was more. He wondered what these demons were, that they induced such unease.

Talk grunted and gestured that Wyme continue.

“They came in the night, with fire.” Wyme shuddered at the recollection. “They burned those buildings outside the walls-the warehouses and the docks, all the boats there. Worse, they sent fire-arrows over the walls. In God’s name, it was chaos!”

“I sallied against them,” Spelt took up the narration as Wyme fell silent, “but I was beaten back. God knows, but it was all we could do to hold the walls.”

“What of your hexes?” Talle locked eyes with Wyme.

“Not strong enough. It requires one of your strength to fix those secure.”

He essayed a nervous smile that Talle ignored. “They breached the walls?” It was the first time Var had seen the Inquisitor disconcerted.

“They did,” Wyme said. “We held them off for seven days, but then they entered. God, it was terrible!”

“It was a hard fight.” Spelt looked to regain some measure of authority, of respect. “We fought them through the streets, and finally drove them back. But there were losses. …”

“Yes, yes.” Talle was unconcerned with the fallen. “And then?”

“They sieged us,” Spelt said.

“A month,” Wyme added. “Then they quit. Between the sun’s setting and the next day’s dawn, they were gone-praise God!” “And then?” Talle prompted.

“We set to repairing the damage as best we could.” Wyme dabbed anew at his face. “There’s not so much timber left in the vicinity, so we sent armed expeditions south to the Hope River.”

“South? Why south?”

“The demons would seem to inhabit the north and west,” Wyme explained. “The attacks began there, along the wilderness edge.”

“And did you find sign of them to the south?”

“None.” Wyme shook his head. “Indeed, I was able to persuade a good number of the refugees to return in that direstion.”

Had he hoped this news would please the Inquisitor, he was disappointed: Talle only nodded, his face expressionless, and asked, “And those with holdings to the west and north?”

“Some have gone back. Under armed escort. Mostly those closest to the city. The rest-those with holdings closer to the forest rim-are afraid. They believe the wilderness spawns the demons.”

“They’ll return.” Talle glanced at Var. “When the major goes out, he shall escort them home.”

“They’ll likely argue.”

Talle frowned, his angry eyes prompting the governor to retreat back into his chair. “This land belongs to Evander,” he snapped. “To the Autarchy! We shall not give it up.”

“No, of course not.” Wyme hastened to agree.

And since this … siege … what further attacks?” the Inquisitor continued.

“None,” Wyme said. “We’ve seen no sign of them.”

“Save, of course, you do not venture very far.” Talle pursed his narrow lips, staring at nothing, and for a while silence descended. It was clear who commanded here. Wyme and Spelt, for all their faces were dark with anger and indignation, made no sound, only waited on the Inquisitor as if fearful of disturbing his silent contemplation. Var sipped the last of his brandy, thinking that he should welcome venturing inland. Grostheim, he felt, would not be a pleasant place while Talle remained.

Finally Talle broke the uncomfortable silence: “I’d speak with the officer, Danyael Corm.”

“Now, Inquisitor?” Wyme snapped a fob watch open. “My wife prepares dinner in your honor. She looks forward to meeting you.”

Var doubted that anticipation should last long. From his recollection of Celinda, he suspected she and Talle were likely to find one another mutually distasteful. He thought that dinner should be a strained occasion.

But that dinner was, in any event, postponed. Talle looked at Wyme and said, “Now,” and the governor swallowed nervously and motioned at Spelt, who rose as if grateful to escape.

No, there was no doubt who commanded Grostheim now.